


Not A Place, But A Feeling

by FadedSepia



Series: Friends and Neighbors [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Mush, M/M, Misunderstandings, New Relationship, Protective Steve Rogers, Roommates, Soft When Things Aren't Going Wrong, Valentine Fail, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-10-27 21:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: Clint and Steve have finally settled in together, and are just getting the time to comfortably be a couple, when a stranger comes knocking…





	1. Daybreak

**Author's Note:**

> There was never a plan to make a sequel to _And They Were Roommates… Damnit!_ I honestly _did_ write it as a standalone fic. It still stands fine on its own, but my brain found the one loose end that stood out as one I hadn’t gathered up by the end of it, and this story grew from that.
> 
> If you haven’t read the first work in this series, it isn’t mandatory, but it will fill in some background.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Clint get unannounced company.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Clint tipped his head back against the thigh he’d been using as a pillow while he worked, shifting away from the soothing brush Steve’s fingers in his hair long enough to glance up at him.

“What, you whoring yourself out for money on Valentine’s day?” There was no bite to Steve’s words, only a- a loving sort of teasing, matched by his smile. He dragged his fingers through Clint’s hair one last time, hand stilling against his cheek. “It’s tradition, right? And when do we ever get holidays off?”

“Yeah, and it’s charity, so…” The_ annual_ Hawkeye Hearts-Day Charity Auction had been on his calender before he and Steve had really become_ official_, and Clint was looking forward to it. He didn’t do all that many public events, so they were still generally fun. Plus, it offered an excuse to dust off parts of his old uniform and ham it up with Kate for a day; it was PR that he could actually enjoy,_ and_ he got to be openly armed the whole time._ Win-win. _“Sparkle Cupid returns, just without being twinky, I guess?”

“Twunky?”

“Hmm.” Clint picked his crochet back up, turning the chain with a little shrug. “That works.”

They lapsed back into silence, Clint slowly working back along the beginning of the afghan he’d just started while his boyfriend read. Lucky was sprawled under the newly-repaired coffee table, which apparently was not as load-bearing as IKEA had claimed, but which still made a decent place to rest a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice, and a pair of socked feet. _Only_ feet. Clint chuckled to himself, getting lost in the soothing repetition of his work, listening to Steve’s soft, curse-laden muttering as he read through the news.

It was a good fifteen minutes before either of them said anything else, Steve peeking around the edge of his tablet to look back down at him “Are you really going to wear _those_ shorts out in public, though? Because I vaguely remember a conversation about weaponized asses, and _that_ might be more… _public exposure_ than the world can handle.”

“It’s cute when you try to be low-key about that.” Steve’s possessive streak came through as petulance more than anything, and he was so awkward about it all that Clint couldn’t help finding it endearing. Plus, there were_ some_ things it was nice to know only Steve was ever going to see, again. Between mission misshaps and forgetting to close the blinds, anyone with an internet connection could find pictures of him naked, so that was hardly the point. Some things were just…_ special._ Or traumatizing, in the case of other Hawkeye.“But, no; Kate is wearing them. Over black leggings, since she _‘can’t let those touch skin.’”_

“Ah.” Steve chuckled. “She’s that scarred?”

“Apparently.” It wasn’t like Clint hadn’t _washed_ them. Kate was just easily squicked out, or – as she put it – _private._ But she was a great Hawkeye, and he was glad they’d get to take a full day just to pal around, again. She’d finally settled into her new place, and, even if they weren’t both single this year, they could continue their other Valentine tradition of coffee and carbs before they spent the rest of the day on display like store-front mannequins. Although that, plus the auction and then the raffle winner’s reception would eat up pretty much everything except the last few hours of the day. Even if Steve had said, many times, that he was fine with it, Clint still felt guilty over not planning_ something_ fortheir first Valentine’s day as a couple. “You’re sure you’re not going to miss having a cutesy-gross date and shelling out for over-priced reservations?”

“Rigolleto’s doesn’t have a waiting list.” His boyfriend pulled a move from Clint’s own playbook and lightly booped the end of his nose. “And I don’t need a holiday to tell you I love you, sweetheart.”

“When did you get so smooth?”

Steve’s cheeks went just the tiniest bit rosy, but he only shrugged, looking back at the tablet in his hand.

Clint absently dropped his chain and hook onto the floor, freed hands reaching upwards, tugging Steve’s shirt and circling the back of his neck. “Bend down?”

“I’m not as flexible as you are.” Leaning forward, and undermining his own words, Steve set his tablet on the coffee table.

“Think we should test that theory?” He couldn’t have stopped the smirk pulling at his face if he’d wanted to, especially not from this angle, with its perfect view of Steve’s equally perfect, kissable face. “We’ve got four hours before I need to be out that door.”

“Probably not on the couch.” Steve was almost bent double, fingers tracing Clint’s jaw as he spoke. “I don’t know how much more it can take.”

“Good thing it won’t be doing the taking then.” Clint tugged him that last bit closer, burying his fingers in Steve’s hair as their lips met.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

This ranked among the weirder missions Clint had ever taken on. Phil had told them it would be a few days, and that he and Rodriguez would be leading teams in sweeps of what SHIELD believed to be empty Hydra nests, facilities so small that they hadn’t seemed like more than glorified storage areas, or maybe fortified bunkers. Clint and Yo-yo would be hitting three they had found scattered across the continent; ‘Tasha’s team would be doing the same sweep across four sites in South America. They’d been briefed together, but hadn’t been given nearly enough information, as far as he was concerned. Being told to report _things that look weird_ was not helpful at all, especially not with evil organizations. Not even with their lives in general, but whatever.

This bunker had been tiny on the surface, but the basement was two stories, nearly the size of a standard family home, and completely trashed. “So is there anything in particular we’re looking for here?” _Besides enough broken glass to fill a swimming pool?_

Phil’s voice buzzed into his ear a moment later. _“Anything that looks like medical equipment. At this point, anything that doesn’t seem standard, but you’ll probably know when you find it.”_

“Gotcha.” That did _nothing_ to help. Most of this first floor was too messed up to yield anything recognizable as _equipment_, anyway. The building appeared deserted, at least, and the security system had been deactivated when they got here. Who or whatever had been in this place, it probably wasn’t here, or coming back any time soon.

Clint made his way down to the second level, followed by Rodriguez, the other two members of the team – both too green by half, as far as he was concerned – would stay at the entrance. Now _this?_ This might be what Phil had been talking about. Clint had never seen anything like it before. Thank fuck because, even with all he’d seen, _this_ was disturbing.

“I see what you mean about knowing…” Clint stepped around what was left of pieces of a body, more interested in the thing on the other side of the room “So, what is this?”

“_Is it functional?”_

“I don’t know what it was supposed to do, but I don’t think it's going to be doing that anymore, if that’s your question.” Clint plucked an arrow from his quiver, using it to lever open the human-sized pod on legs, peering inside. There was something that looked like a headrest in there, along with what might have once been manacles. There was also something that resembled a place to – well, as sick as it was to think about – strap somebody’s face down, based on the position of the hooks on either side of that neck-rest thing. The view window in the barely-on-its-hinges door was at about face height, and the whole thing looked like it might have tipped back, at least before it got busted all to shit-pieces.

“_Description?”_

Clint had no fucking clue what it might have been used for, but he went with the best guess he had, at least based on things he’d_ seen_ before. “I’m looking at something that _might_ be some kind of a decompression chamber that you could – I dunno – lock somebody up in? Whatever it was, it’s been smashed up like nobody’s business. The internal components are busted all to hell, lots of snapped wires. It’s knocked off its hinges, and…” Clint grimaced, backing away as something blue-white and tacky dribbled out of the door. “And it’s leaking something… Smells kinda like engine coolant for the quinjet, only worse.”

“_Anything else?”_

“Found this freaky metal recliner?” Rodriguez spoke up behind him, and Clint joined her, staring down at something that looked like Satan’s Barcalounger fucked a dental chair. Like the pod he’d spotted, it was smashed, pieces ripped out willy-nilly, but still recognizable as some sort of seat._ Probably._ Clint shrugged back at the other agent, who kept talking._ “_Somebody might really hate the dentist? Of course, if this is the chair they’re using, I can see why.”

“_Right. We’ll have a retrieval team go through and sweep.”_ Phil sighed down the line, voice slipping into the semi-monotone he hit when things were going as poorly as he’d expected. _“There are coordinates waiting for the two of you back at the quinjet for the next one. Hate to do this to you in January, but it’s in North Dakota.”_

Yo-yo sighed beside him, shaking her head as they trudged back up the stairs, passing the two rookie agents that were going to be left to watch the site until the retrieval team got there. “I can see how we might have missed these facilities; they’re tiny.”

“Coulson? Are they all going to be like this?”

“_We have reason to believe they might. Black Widow reported similar findings in Guayaquil about an hour ago. May’s team found one in Atbarah. Our first tip-off was from an explosion in an abandoned industrial park outside Perth.”_

Clint slumped into the cockpit chair, strapping in as Rodriguez did the same beside him, engaging the engines, but opening up the main com-line. “Phil, can you just tell us what we’re dealing with?

_“For now, let’s hope it’s a ghost, and Hydra’s problem, instead of ours?”_

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Steve had been drifting, only half asleep for the last two hours since Clint got back from his assignment. The little kiss his boyfriend had planted on his forehead had woken him, but Steve hadn’t wanted him feeling guilty over it, so he’d laid there, listening as Clint stowed his gear and showered. Pulled in by those arms when Clint finally crawled into bed behind him, Steve had made a genuine effort to go back to sleep, but had settled for just laying still to let his boyfriend rest. The January morning was dark enough that he could at least doze until five, when he could safely extricate himself without worry of waking his bed mate.

Steve was not going to complain about spending the wee hours of the morning being the _slightly bigger_ little spoon. With Clint breathing muffled snores against his hair, his leg hitched up over his hip, Steve’s only complaint might have been that they were reasonably clothed; Clint was even sleeping in a shirt. It would have been the perfect morning to start off with _delays_, especially with Clint tired enough to let Steve spoil him.

Well, it was _almost_ perfect. Except, of course, for the presence of whoever it was stalking outside their window.

At first, Steve hadn’t been sure that it wasn’t just a strange waking dream. Then, he’d wondered if – _maybe_ – it was someone who was supposed to be there, one of the _regulars_ that knew the Bed-Stuy rooftop for a safe place to sit, take a breather, or patch up a _work-related_ injury with the med supplies Clint kept stashed under the air handler. It couldn’t have been any normal prowler; they would have set off the alarms along the fire escape if they didn’t know where they were, and it wasn’t an easy climb. Steve had assumed it might have been Kate, who – despite literally citing them as her reason for moving out of the building – kept coming back to the apartment to Hawkeye it up with Clint, borrow the dog, and snag butterfly bandages out of the rooftop medical stash.

But, then, Kate didn’t smoke.

The person had lingered, moved from being barely visible at the edge of the bedroom window, and repositioned themselves to look in from the solar… Where there was no fire escape, which meant they were literally hanging on to the side of the building five stories up. They had been there for fifteen minutes, unmoving, outlined in the pale pink light from the chicken and waffle joint across the way.

Steve flicked his eyes to where his shield sat beside the bed. After it had rolled in front of the door enough times that both he and Clint had nearly turned their ankles – because the floor in a hundred year old building was _never_ going to be _level_ – Steve had taken to keeping the spare shield propped up in the bedroom. One of the tenants on the second floor had left a guitar stand when she moved out, and it worked reasonably well for the task. He was grateful, now, that it was within arm’s reach; their prowler was moving again, and quickly.

There was a light tap against the window, metal on glass, and Steve had just a moment to recognize an arm drawing back. He rolled, snatching the shield with one hand, wrenching Clint over him in the direction of the door. Steve loosed the shield just as a shining fist crashed through the solar window.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Clint had already been sore from spending five days effectively sleeping in the cockpit of the quinjet; being literally thrown out of bed and down the stairs had not done anything to help that. His eyes traced the path of ricochet destruction as Clint sighed out his nose. The shield had gone out through the south-facing window, glanced off _something_ that made it change direction, pinged the corner of the adjacent building, and then come _back_ in through the westward solar window. The only way the path made sense was if _the something_ had been in the air, sixty feet off the ground beside their window. That hardly explained how nearly _all_ of that glass had wound up _inside_ their apartment; Steve’s story of someone busting the glass in was all that could account for _that_.

He readjusted the bag of frozen peas against the left side of his face, seeing Steve droop even further beside him from the corner of his eye. The right one.The one that_ wasn’t_ swollen mostly shut. Clint sighed. It wasn’t the _worst_ injury he’d ever gotten – either at home or by accident – but it seemed his boyfriend was taking it hard. Much harder than he was, anyway. Clint tried to blink, again. He only managed to strain the two small cuts on his cheek; they pulled with every word he spoke, but he needed to talk through this, to at least _try_ to figure out what had happened. “So, it has to be someone that can punch through reinforced glass and climb walls? That’s a short list, and most of them are in the Kitchen.”

Beside him, Steve nodded, eyes glued to the carpet, shifting so he was seated as close to Clint as he could without touching.

“It wasn’t Double D; he’d have given me a heads up if he was going to head out this way.” Clint didn’t_ think_ Matt could have done it, but he’d never paired ninjas with zombies, either, so he’d had to ask._ “_Rand texted back from his vacation in Aruba, Jess was literally sending a drunk selfie_ as_ I hit the landing, and Luke is not a fan of heights _at all_, so… Peter?”

“No, not unless Peter bulked up and started smoking?”

Clint couldn’t imagine Peter Parker getting anywhere near a cigarette without going off on a diatribe about how unhealthy it was, so that ruled_ him_ out.“And they _punched_ through the window? You’re sure?”

“No, Clint; I have _no idea_, and just broke all that glass on a whim.”

“Hey! I know you’re pissed, too, but you’re not the one who found out we had this prowler _after_ waking up halfway down the stairs!” He turned to glare at Steve, only to make himself dizzy and set his cheek smarting. Clint sighed, starting to drop his head into his hand to look at the man beside him, only to realize that would mean leaning on the bruised up side of his face. He settled on resting the bag of peas on his hand, and settling his cheek on that.

Steve leaned further over his knees, voice cracking a bit as he spoke, “I… I didn’t _mean to…”_ looking up at Clint through unshed tears. “I’m so sorry, Clint. I just wanted to get you clear of the windows… but I fucked up, and I _hurt_ you…”

“Look, Steve, I’m pretty sturdy, and-”

Steve uncrossed his arms, head shaking as he cut Clint off. “I _know_ that, but that doesn’t mean _I_ want to be the one hurting you.” He looked back down at the floor, even as his hand settled beside Clint’s leg, fingers barely touching the fabric of his sleep pants. “Not ever.”

Clint reached for his hand, holding it in place as he scooted closer, leaving Steve’s arm behind his back. He pressed in against his boyfriend with a huff. Clint turned the bag of peas over, readjusting it to a cooler spot, and putting it back on his swollen cheek, slowly leaning into Steve’s side. “I know you didn’t mean to, babe. I do, really, but… Why you didn’t just wake me up?”

“I was trying to get you behind me, away from the windows…”

“Because I was a liability?”

“Because I care about you and didn’t want to see you get hurt.” Steve finally looked back at him, lifting his hand, gently stroking fingers along the unbruised side of Clint’s face. “I-I just wanted to keep you safe, sweetheart.”

Clint sighed, dropping his cheek onto Steve’s collar bone, eyes searching for that interesting spot his boyfriend had found earlier on the floor. “We fight people for a living, Steve; _safe_ isn’t really a reasonable expectation.”

Steve didn’t say anything, opting to slip his arm up around Clint’s shoulders.

“That whole care thing works both ways, you know.” Tipping his head back, Clint did his best to look disappointed while holding a bag of frozen vegetables against his face. “Unless you thought I would _like_ the idea of you going into a fight with some super-powered prowler _alone?”_

“I-…” Biting his lower lip, Steve sighed. “No, I know you wouldn’t, but-”

“I wouldn’t, I don’t, and it pisses me off that you didn’t _think_ about _that_.” Clint didn’t want to completely bust his chops, but Steve needed to understand that he wasn’t going to put up with being babied._ Yes_, he might not have super strength, but he didn’t_ need_ Steve to protect him. They were in this together, after all. “Team effort, Steve.”

“Yeah. I… I’d be pissed, too.”

“Yeah, you would. And I’m probably going to stay pissed, at least a_ little_,until the bruising goes down…” He knocked his elbow very gently into Steve’s ribs, purposely leaning closer as he spoke, “Hug might make me feel better, though?”

Steve wrapped his other arm around him, gently pulling Clint in, lifting him until he was effectively sitting in Steve’s lap. His boyfriend’s head came to rest against chest, Steve’s hands settling low on his back as he held him. “I’m so sorry, Clint. I am, I-”

“Hey. No more of that.” Clint shushed him, chin resting on Steve’s head. “I’m fine, you’re fine; it’s alright, Steve.”

He felt his boyfriend nod against his shirt, and felt a very slight, but growing, dampness there a moment later. Clint closed his eyes, hugging around Steve’s shoulders with his free hand. They needed time to calm down, anyway. This morning had been insane from the minute Clint woke up, and he’d been exhausted long before that.

The peas were starting to get soft by the time he pulled away, looking down at Steve’s blotchy, damp face. “I’m okay, Steve. I promise.”

“Yeah, but-”

“No buts.” It hurt to smile all the way, so Clint settled on a lopsided smirk. “Or did you forget the time I knifed you in my sleep?”

“That’s not-”

“Or the time I kicked you into the wall when you surprised me?”

“Clint, be reasonab-”

Steve seemed determined to keep arguing, just so that he could _prove_ that he was at fault. Clint bit back the urge to groan; this was going to be the water heater discussion all over, again, if he didn’t put a stop to it, now. “And that’s not bringing up breaking the headboard.”

His boyfriend froze, eyes going wide a moment before they cut away from Clint’s. “That’s not the same at all. That was an _accident_, Clint.”

“Yeah, an accident that was still mostly _my_ fault, and involved _your_ skull.” And the most awkward medical check Clint had ever been to where he_ wasn’t_ the one getting a look-over. Even if the woman treating Steve had reassured them both that it wasn’t nearly so traumatizing for her, neither of them liked to bring it up. He wasn’t sure what else she could have seen that was _worse_, but Clint knew for certain that Claire Temple had earned herself a lifetime of favours for that trip. Just like he knew that – _really_ – something like this was bound to happen, eventually, just by virtue of he and Steve being together.“_That_ was an accident, Steve, and so was _this_.”

He shrugged, fingers rubbing small circles in the small of Clint’s back. “This wasn’t _fun_, though.”

“You had _fun_ getting concussed?”

“The part _before_ that.” Steve rolled his eyes with a snort, and Clint knew things were going to be alright. “And it was worth it, mostly.”

“Yeah, well, we’re both alive with nothing worse than some bruises and busted glass. That’s a win in my book.” He flicked the end of Steve’s nose, bending down to lean their heads together, at least on the one side he could. “But we _are_ going to have to explain this to the team, and, _‘I fell down some stairs’_ is _the_ oldest excuse out there. Trust me, I’d know.”

“Clint…” The disappointment was real, though mostly self directed, judging by Steve’s expression. “That’s not funny.”

“Maybe a little? I _am_ clumsy pre-caffeine.”

“You do trip a lot.”

“Yeah, just not this time, though.” Clint scootched his way off of Steve’s leg, staying cuddled up under his arm as he turned his gaze back to the destruction in the other room.

As bad as it might _look_, they’d been pretty lucky, all told. Firstly _because_ Lucky hadn’t been home and asleep in there. Kate had been complaining about being lonely, so they’d agreed to let her hold onto the dog until she got some steady company. Although, given her… _standards_, it might be a while. Steve had finished his last oil piece a week before Clint had left, and it was downstairs waiting to go to the auction along with the others; they were only going to have to patch the walls, not completely repaint them. Steve’s shield _had_ chipped a little piece of brick off the building across the street, but no one was likely to notice, and it hadn’t broken anyone _else’s_ windows. And, most importantly, both of them were alive following an encounter where someone busted through glass that was supposed to be _highly_ Steve-resistant.

_Resistant_ being the operative word. The building was too old to take glass that was actually dense enough to be Steve-_proof_, at least not without crushing the wall or turning the south side apartments into habitable greenhouses. Still, it would have taken some serious power to get through that glass, someone enhanced at a minimum, if not an actual explosive. It didn’t make sense, really; there were easier ways in, the_ front door_ being the obvious choice, and – according to what Steve remembered – their attacker had been out there for a while._ That_ was actually what worried Clint the most. “Is there anyone – I mean, anyone_ specific_ – that you can think of that would be stalking either of us? That would be capable of doing_ that?”_

“Stalking?” His boyfriend sounded as confused as he felt.

“Yeah; stalking. You said they were out there a while, and that doesn’t make sense, otherwise.” Sometimes, Clint found it easier to think through things when he was moving, even if it was just fiddling with an arrow, but he didn’t have one within reach. He gently extricated himself from Steve’s embrace, pushing up to standing. Clint tossed the mostly thawed peas back and forth between his hands, eyes flicking over the mess in the solar as he paced a line at the foot of the bed. “Anybody that wanted us dead would have had an easier time of it just hitting the building at a distance, and it wouldn’t have taken all that time to recognize we were _both_ in the apartment. If this prowler wants us dead, they want something out of us first. And assuming it was a _fist_ they put through the window-”

“It was shiny, but it was _definitely_ a fist.” Steve nodded emphatically.

“Then they’re either enhanced, or not human. After this place got hit the first time, I made some upgrades.” Clint crossed to one of the still intact windows in the bedroom, gently rapping it with his knuckles. “_You_ could break it with a punch, but otherwise, someone would have needed some pretty heavy ordinance.”

“So possibly a fist-shaped grenade? Wonderful.”

Clint snorted, looking back over his shoulder. “Well, on the bright side, at least we’re not due to get snow for a few days, so there’ll be time for repairs.”

As if he’d summoned the cold by speaking about it, a gust of wind whipped in through the open door to the solar, bringing a few of the previous day’s flurries drifting in with it, further chilling the bedroom. Clint curled his bare toes against the carpet, fighting a shiver.

“Still a bit of a draft.” With that, Steve got up and shut the door, blocking off their view of the minor disaster in the solar. He pulled the crocheted block-blanket from their bed, draping it around Clint’s shoulders, leaning in to hug him from behind.

Clint snuggled back into him with a contented sigh. “Glad one of us runs warm.

“Do you need a new bag of peas?”

“I’m thinking of upgrading; maybe to something classy, like the bell pep-”

There was a swift series of double knocks on the door, followed by a familiar, slightly muffled voice echoing up to them. “Guys, I’ve got that key, but I’m not as brave as Bishop, so could one of you let me know something? I sent a few texts on the way, but… Ya know, there’s that Wally Waffle place across the street. I can just…”

Steve made it down the stairs faster, Clint taking his time. By the time he had shuffled to flop onto the couch, his boyfriend had already yanked Sam inside.

“Sorry, Sam, we got busy.”

“Um…” Wilson looked over at him, brows raised as he took a step back toward the door. “How busy?”

“Somebody climbed the wall and punched through our window.” Better Steve said it than him; he’d actually been awake to see it happen.

Clint, on the other hand, was beginning to get a _no-caffeine_ headache on top of his _punched in the face by stairs_ headache, and not really in the mood for any more talking. Or even much more _thinking_, really. Still, if Sam was here, that offered a few options. Clint turned, leaning over the arm of the sofa as he spoke. “Yeah. We haven’t been outside, yet. I thought about calling you and Nat to help with a sweep, but since you two- Wait, is she still bringing things up?”

“I actually thought she might be here.” Sam shook his head with a frown. “It’s been radio silence since we hung up before her flight back last night.”

“Huh…” Clint had used his phone to take pictures of the wreckage and send off a few messages, but he hadn’t really _looked_ at it since. He fished it out of his pocket, unlocking it with a single swipe. Natasha _had_ sent him a message that overrode the lock. Not an emergency, but one step down.

**Widow**  
[_411 000 669 669 000 641_]

“Sam? Something’s up.” He was already dialing as Steve and Sam joined him, Steve settling next to him, Sam balancing on the arm, all three of them leaning over the phone.

Natasha’s face popped up on the screen after the first ring. She looked tired, unsurprising, since she’d been doing the same sort of missions Clint had for most of the week. Her hair was flat on one side, and frizzy on the other, which usually only happened if she fell asleep over a table, and her focus was off just enough for him to know that – while he had slept only a little during the past week – ‘Tasha probably hadn’t slept _at all_ in far too long. _Again._ She blinked, angling the phone, so that just the edge of Phil Coulson’s face could share the screen. “Hawkeye-” Natasha stopped short, brows slamming down, nose lifting in a grimace. “What. Happened?”

“Steve threw me down the stairs.”

“… I’ll be right there.”

“It was for a good reason!” The_ last_ thing he needed was his tiny partner trying to kill Steve, too._ “_We’re _mostly_ fine. I can see Coulson; what’s wrong?

Phil leaned further into the frame. “Would you believe me if I said it was a ghost?”

“According to Steve, a man climbed our building, watched us sleep, and then punched through the window… So, sure; why not?”

“Damn.” Natasha looked vaguely ill. She slid out of frame, having handed the phone off to Phil.

He offered a smile, the wan, sickly one that only ever meant something terrible was happening, and that they needed to be involved. “It… might be better if you all came in so we could discuss this.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a ghost is more real than anyone had imagined.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

“Shouldn’t Sam have come, too?” Steve had missed the conversation between him and Natasha before they left, since it hadn’t been on speakerphone. All he knew was that Sam had stepped back in from the hallway insisting that he would stay in their apartment, stern in the face of their questioning. –_ “You have to go, Cap.”_ – He’d spoken it like an order, refusing to back down until Clint had tossed a jacket at Steve. His boyfriend had practically dragged him out of the apartment, both still in pyjamas, past a very obvious pair of plain-clothes SHIELD agents already poking around beneath their window.

There was a car waiting for them by the time they made it downstairs; it really _must_ have been serious, because Mr. Hogan was driving. Now he shrugged, glancing back at Steve in the rearview mirror as he answered. “Tony hasn’t told me anything beyond ‘_Shit’s happening,’_ so I can’t really say. I _do_ know that I haven’t seen this many SHIELD agents in the tower since the whole alien invasion thing, so – yeah – get ready for a fun morning.”

“Kinda surprised _they_ didn’t come get us.”

Happy glanced back over where his arm was slung across the front seat, looking almost like a kicked puppy. “You’re not glad to see me?”

“Be better if I _could_ see you.” Clint pushed his sunglasses further up his nose as he slumped into Steve’s side, a tired mass of layered sweatshirts and low grumbling as they pulled away from the curb.

Steve adjusted his arm, trying to keep Clint as comfortable as possible. Their morning had gone to shit because of what he had, and _hadn’t_, done. If Steve had just gotten out of bed, he could have at least caught a better _look_, maybe even managed to grab them after that punch. If he’d slept on the other side of the bed at least, he would have already _been_ in front of Clint, and not overreacted to try and get his boyfriend out of the line of any potential fire. If Steve had just _gotten_ up when he _woke_ up, he would have already been in the solar to begin with. If. _If-_

Clint flicked the tip of Steve’s nose, looking up at him over purple lenses. “No brooding.”

“I’m not-”

A polite cough and throat clear echoed from the front seat.

Steve blinked. He might have expected to be interrupted by Clint, but not by Happy.

“I, uh, I don’t want to get in the middle of something _personal_, but, well…” They were at a stop-light, so Mr. Hogan could turn around and look back at them. “You are _definitely_ brooding.” Happy turned back as the light changed, though his eyes still flicked to them in the mirror as he spoke. “I mean, is it the best brood I’ve ever seen? Absolutely not; no one is going beat Tony on that one, but it’s not bad. I’d say, maybe, six-point-eight out of ten?”

Clint chuckled against Steve’s shoulder, sounding more like his usual self when he asked, “Six-point-eight?”

“Yeah; not quite up to a seven.” Happy flipped a quick thumbs-up. “Good effort, though.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

“Well, aren’t you two just bright blond rays of sun_shiners_ this morning?” Despite the joking lilt he was forcing, Tony looked just as high strung and exhausted as they felt when he met them coming off the elevator. His gaze lingered on Clint’s face – black eye now full purple behind his glasses – before shifting to Steve. “I heard you had a _guest?”_

“Guest, ghost, who the hell knows anymore?” Clint grumbled beside him. “Please tell me there’s coffee?”

“And pancakes.” Tony fell in step on Clint’s other side, gently patting his arm. “Pepp and I split the batch… and I _tried._ Only half of them are burnt this time, Cap.”

Pancake Sunday had become a rotating tradition just before Christmas, hosted by whoever was available and uninjured – well,_ least injured_ – at the time. Sam’s recipe had gone out to the whole team, and it was darn-near idiot proof; it just wasn’t genius or centenarian proof, that was all.

Steve reached around to nudge against Tony’s shoulder. “I’ll eat the burnt ones.”

“You’ll eat anything.”

Tony’s barb brought another chuckle out of Clint, and Steve smiled. _No brooding_.

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Phil and Natasha, along with Pepper, and _coffee_ were waiting for them in the conference room, as expected. _Unexpected_, however, were Jessica Jones and Spider-Man, seated on either side of the table near the display screen. Jones was slumped into a seat next to Phil, one booted foot on the table, chewing gum with her head tipped back, eyes hidden by what Clint knew were her hangover sunglasses. Peter was curled up in a ball in the office chair on the other side of the table, head on his knee. He was probably asleep, but the mask made it hard to tell. He _might_ have been glaring, but that was just about as likely as him smoking so… Probably asleep.

_I feel ya, kid. _Clint took the chair beside Peter and across from Phil, reaching automatically for the pot of coffee and a cup. Nat’s fingers grasped his hand across the table and squeezed. He smiled back at her as he sat down, sipping slowly.

“At least you look good in purple.”

He snorted into his cup, “Guess you’re the _sunshine_ Tony was talking about.” By this point, everyone had at least settled into a seat, even if most of them were tired and at least two of them had terrible headaches. Clint turned, gaze shifting between Tony, ‘Tasha, and Phil, looking for an answer. “Can somebody please tell us what’s happening? Do we need to call ghostbusters, or can we just shoot whatever this is?”

“And why am _I_ here?” Jessica lurched forward, elbows hitting the table and making it creak. She pulled her glasses slightly down her nose, bloodshot glare landing on Phil before she pushed them back up and jerked her thumb in Clint’s direction. “Him, I get, but I am trying to _avoid_ all of your heroic bul-” She flicked her eyes to Peter, then Steve, and coughed. “All of that _crap_ you seem to chase after. It just _finds_ me.”

“Yes, and _that_ is why you’re here Miss Jones.” Phil turned to face her with a weary shake of his head, smile painfully diplomatic. “We wanted to make you aware and suggest you avoid this particular…_ crap _at all costs. It seemed best to inform _you_, as one of the more _stable_ individuals in your circle of acquaintances.”

“It’s really sad that that’s true.”

“Same goes for Spider-Man-” Tony nodded from the other end of the table, picking up where Phil left off. When Peter didn’t respond beyond a quiet wheeze, it became clear that Clint’s initial assessment was right; he was out cold. “Spider-Man? – Kid, wake up!”

Peter’s voice was a petulant whine as he flailed back to consciousness, nearly tipping out of the chair. “Sorry, sorry, I’m up!” He righted himself in his chair, arms and knees crossed as he curled up further back against the cushion. “Sunday’s like the only day I can _sleep,_ but – sure – yeah, what’s… who are we not supposed to be friends with?_”_

“Relax, kid.” Clint reached over and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Answers incoming.”

“Right. Please direct your attention to the screen.” The lights dimmed. Coulson picked up a small remote and clicked, pulling up a screen full of dozens of photos, many of them blurry. They all depicted a man – that much Clint could make out – who appeared to be heavily armed. Some of them were digital, while others were clearly scans of actual photographs. There were even a few that looked like stills from CCTV security feeds. Not one was an in focus full-body shot; most showed, at best, half a torso or a limb. Clint had seen a few of them before. He recognized one, a cellphone shot taken from the ground, booted legs walking away. _Odessa_. Clint glanced back at Natasha.

She nodded as Phil spoke. “We call him the Winter Soldier. Hydra’s top assassin. He’s been active on and off for over six decades. Until recently, most of the intelligence community – even us – thought of him as something of a ghost.”

“Ghosts don’t ruin bikini season.” Natasha’s crossed arms settled lower on her abdomen as she glared at the screen.

“Didn’t we have a theory _he_ was a codename that kept getting passed to multiple guys?” Clint drained his coffee cup, setting the mug down on the table and giving it a little spin. He hadn’t been there, but he’d been part of the team that picked ‘Tasha up after. Clint had hoped his fear was unwarranted back then, but Nat had always been his barometer for things like that. The Winter Soldier scared him, and scared her; they all needed to be wary.

“Like _James Bond?”_ Peter piped up excitedly from Clint’s right.

“We had considered it a possibility, Spider-Man, but some… _pertinent_ agent experience, along with certain reported… _goings on_ have led us to think otherwise.” The screen changed, showing photos from Clint’s last mission, along with similar images from other, nearly identical sites. Each one contained the chair, a few even had pods, and one had what looked like the pod mounted on some kind of gurney. “And with our recent findings, we believe it’s possible that Hydra may have been putting him in some kind of stasis over the years.”

“Wait, those were _mobile?”_

“At least one, yes. There were eight in total, along with roughly a dozen chairs. As you can see, they were all broken, making it difficult to get a clear number; however, we were able to get enough pieces together to try at reassembling it. The tubes look to be a type of cryo-preservation chamber.” The screen advanced again, now showing a looped feed from inside a SHIELD facility_ somewhere_; dozens of techs and_ Bruce_ puttering around with the various components.“We believe it would only have been possible to do with an individual with an enhanced constitution, such as the Captain, or Miss Jones. Dr. Banner has agreed to be a short-term test subject, once we have a functional chamber… Provided he doesn’t immediately explode out of it.”

“Does anyone have a description of this guy?” Steve’s chin was resting on the back of his hand, arm propped on his elbow. He always managed to look off-puttingly nonchalant when they hit low points like these, even if he’d already slid into full-on _Cap in the Field_ voice. “Other than _blurry booted assassin,_ I mean? Has anyone ever seen what he looks like?”

“And lived?” Natasha shook her head_ no_ and refilled her coffee cup.“A bare handful; we’re a small club. Actually seen his _face?”_ She looked to her side, to Phil.

“No. Not anyone that’s survived the encounter.” Natasha hadn’t been the first person to be targeted by the Winter Soldier since Phil and Clint had been at SHIELD. There had been more. There just hadn’t been anyone else who walked away afterwards. “The few witnesses reported he wore some sort of mask, possibly goggles as well.”

“Wait, then how do you know it’s him?” Peter was _literally_ on the edge of his seat, knees pulled up to his chest, feet hanging off the edge of the chair.

“By his results and his arsenal. He’s changed weapons over the years – always at least some firearms, getting pretty fond of the Barrett M107A1 for the last two before he started coming after you all – but-”

Here Tony interrupted, and the slide went forward automatically, JARVIS picking up on the little waving gesture of his hand. “But, more recently, he seems to go for vintage, traceable options.”

“Oh?”

Tony nodded to the screen, which showed a set of three rifles. All of them were clearly older models, simpler, with wooden stocks; they looked – dare Clint think it – kind of classy.

“Strange as it sounds, he’s reverted to using antiques.” Phil picked back up. “Your era, Captain. They were used for some of his earliest identified kills; we think he was trained on them.”

“They can’t be the same weapons, I’ve seen him in action.” Natasha narrowed her eyes at the screen, again, brows drawn low and lips pressed into a thin, angry line. “He drops equipment like it’s stolen.”

“Yes, that’s what survivors’ reports indicate, but it doesn’t seem to be the case with these three. The M1911 and an M1 Garand have shown up a few times each, but he’s stuck with the M1941 for the last three.”

“I… I remember those.” Beside Clint, Steve had an oddly distant look in his eyes, gaze focused on the M1941 Johnson shown at the top of the display. “You’re sure they’re those guns? The _same_ guns?”

“I ran a second check through the files SHIELD was kind enough to share. If we account for some expected wear and tear inside the barrels, they’re close enough to some of his first kills back in forty-nine.” Tony flicked his fingers again. The display shifted, showing the retrieved slugs, along with photos of the people they’d killed, faces blacked out, preserving the little remaining dignity of the dead. “They’re definitely his.”

Clint was all for proficiency with old-school weaponry, but there was only so far any decent assassin would usually go for an aesthetic. They had to_ mean_ something.

Steve shifted beside him. “Why, though?”

“To show that he can?” Phil sighed, head shaking slowly. “To send a message?

“Falling back on antiques sends a message, alright.” At least to his mind it did. That Clint was met with blank stares, raised brows, and a few slow leans forward, though, meant that either it was a stroke of genius, or that the stairs had bruised more than his face. He turned to gesture to his boyfriend. “He’s got some vendetta against Steve.”

“Me?”

“Look, Hydra tried to recreate you back then, and now their killing machine is coming after you. Shooting people with antiques? Smashing _our_ window and running off?” Clint would rather not think about it, but it made such a sickening sense. Hydra – underwritten by the Nazis – had tried recreating Steve back before he went under. If what Phil said was true, they’d succeeded. “Seems pretty clear to me.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Phil sighed, chin on his hands. He reached down beside him, lifting an actual_ paper_ file, and placing it on the middle of the table. Clint watched as he opened it, sliding out a handful of reports. They were difficult to read upside down, but there were pictures; bullet holes, witnesses, and a familiar blue-trimmed tuxedo jacket. “Two of the last confirmed sightings were at events in which you were involved or an attendee, Captain.”

“Looks like we found the ruiner of all your best formal wear, Steve.” Tony nodded from his seat, blanching as he spoke. “Although, I guess you got off pretty lucky…”

“We’ve found others, though they’ve been subjected to a wider array of weaponry.” Phil fanned a series of photographs, each showing a different corpse, most felled by perfect shots to the head and chest, a few from heavier ordnance. One was nearly bisected by fire from what Clint could recognize – with a churning nausea – as the work of a mini-gun. Another appeared to have been felled by a series of knife wounds. One was just headless; the clean cut made him think of the razor garotte he knew Nat kept for quiet jobs. Another was covered in a blanket, but Clint could tell by the shadows that pieces of her were _missing_; grenade or a mine, in that case. “He seems to save the more classic options only for incidents involving you, Captain Rogers.”

Steve tensed, while Peter leaned in a little closer to Clint’s side, almost like he was trying to hide. Pepper muttered softly – “_Good Lord…”_ – from the other end of the table, looking up at the ceiling. Jess pushed her glasses back up with a sharp, small gasp.

Phil cleared his throat, slipping them back into the folder. “Your wounds in November and January _were_ confirmed as coming from the 1941 used in his previous attacks.”

“I thought he didn’t miss?”

“Oh, he didn’t, Captain Rogers.” Phil cast a glance to either side, looking almost sympathetic as he removed two final pictures, both of dead men in suits. “Two perfectly clean shots; one to the head, one to the heart. By comparison, your wounds were superficial, at worst. He shot_ through_ you to take out_ other_ people. People who, as it turns out, are in the same line of work as the Winter Soldier, himself; they also appear to _not_ exist. I’d say it was possible you were simply collateral damage, if it had only happened once.”

“Welcome to the club, I guess?” Natasha leaned back into her chair at Coulson’s side, giving Steve a sad smile. “Any idea why he’d go after other ghosts, though, Phil?”

“It could be that he’s gone rogue, or that there’s some internal Hydra power struggle, and someone has called him in to settle it.” That_ might_ make sense. Sending the assassin’s bogeyman after the competition was a surefire way to keep them in line. “Given his recent patterns of attack and… other things, SHIELD is working under an assumption similar to Hawkeye. We also believe he might be targeting you in particular, Captain Rogers.”

Coulson wouldn’t have dropped that tidbit without good reason. Clint leaned forward, actually flipping his glasses up as he looked back at his former teammate. “What _other things_?”

Phil turned away, looking to Tony and Pepper at the end of the table.

“Right, that’s our cue to exit.” Tony stood, hand held out to the woman beside him. “Pepp?”

“This monster left a note on our _doorstep,_ Tony. I’m not getting out of this chair.”

“Al-right.” With a defeated grimace, Tony grabbed hold of the back of Pepper’s rolling chair. He pulled. She dug in her heels, gripping white knuckled at the table. The chair rolled back, but Pepper Potts didn’t move. Tony shook his head and shrugged back at Phil. “I tried. You all saw me try.”

He pushed her chair back in and leaned over, probably whispering an apology. With the way Tony winced as he sat back down, Clint could guess she had pinched him under the table.

Habitually nonplussed, Phil slid an evidence bag from the file-box at his side, pushing it towards Clint with a sigh. “This was found outside the tower, on the eighth-floor promenade.”

It was a torn rectangle of foiled paper, covered in uneven handwriting. Clint turned it over, reading the label stamped into the white paper –_ Lucky Strike_ – before focusing on the words. It was messily block-printed, the hand-writing almost juvenile, the phrase oddly telegraphic. Somehow, that made it worse.

[ _TOWER IS ONLY PLACE HE CAN FIND SAFETY _]

Clint didn’t have to wonder who _he_ was.

Steve leaned in against Clint’s shoulder, head tipping to the side. “That from a pack of cigarettes?”

“Looks like. You said the guy was smoking. Guess he wanted to make a point with his little note.”

“_Notes_, now, I’m afraid. The sweep team found one outside your window, wedged beside the downspout.” Coulson’s phone slid across the table, displaying a second piece of paper or, judging by the tear pattern, the other half of _this_ note, with the same janky penmanship. “There’s a back to that one.”

[ _USELESS TO TRUST YOUR LIFE TO SHIELD _]

Clint flicked his finger across the glass, bringing up the image of the back side of the note.

[_MORE SOLDIERS WILL KEEP WATCHING _]

Steve leaned into his side, reading over Clint’s shoulder as he muttered. “I trust it pretty well. It got him off the window.”

“Yeah, but it’s been enough to take other guys out. He jumped, or _fell_, the height of the fourth floor loft and walked away. And quickly enough that no one noticed him.” Leaning in front of Steve, Clint pushed the phone towards Tony’s waiting fingers.

Tony’s brow furrowed as he asked, “I’m not the only one reading this to mean there are more of these guys out there, right?”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

The rest of Agent Coulson’s report had supported Tony’s theory. Lab tests on the Winter Soldier’s most recent victims had all come back abnormal; every one of them had undergone something similar to the Rebirth procedure. If the Soldier was clearing out powered people, it made sense that he’d wind up in the city. Though Steve still wasn’t convinced that_ he_ was the Winter Soldier’s main target. Ms. Jones and Peter were here for a reason, and they were hardly the only enhanced individuals who were easy to track down.

Jessica leaned over the table, hooking her glasses into her shirt as she turned to look at Agent Coulson. “Well, now that we know there’s a monster like_ that_ running around-” The eye-roll and huff underscored the silent_ ‘again’_ Jessica had left off the end of her sentence. “-what exactly do you want to do about this? Specifically, what the f- heck do you expect_ me_ to do about it?‘Cause I’m not getting anywhere near whatever left all of _that_ behind.”

“We hope you will do absolutely nothing, Ms. Jones.” Phil reached to pat her arm, but pulled back as soon as Jessica made a face like she might vomit. “You are, however, likely to pick up on things at street level that we won’t. We’d appreciate it if you could pass anything along to us; report, but do not engage.”

“Right. BOLO for metal arms, corpses, and unexplained mayhem. Two billable hours wasted to tell me _not_ to go running after powered murderers; I’m sending the bill to you, _Agent._ Can I go now?” At Phil’s nod, Jessica stood, snatching her coffee cup, gulping it as she headed for the conference room door. “If I_ do_ see him, I’ll try to snag a picture of his face. Your guys did a shit job.” She let the door slam behind her, and Steve could hear her boots stomping all the way to the elevator.

Spider-Man piped up from Clint’s other side to fill the empty air. “So, why am I here?”

“Because, unfortunately, you’re among the people most likely to encounter him, Mr. Parker.” The concern in Agent Coulson’s voice was palpable. The kid might help them out, sometimes, but Peter was still barely old enough to drive. “His primary working hours, at least recently, have been at dusk, after nightfall, or just before dawn. As a long distance shooter, he’s likely to be higher up, which puts you at the greatest risk for accidentally encountering him.”

“So…?”

“Same rules as Jones: Contact us, and don’t engage. You can’t exactly shrug off a bullet wound, kid.” Tony sighed at the other end of the table. “In fact, maybe you should stay here-”

“Thanks for the offer, but I can’t do that, Mr. Stark. This guy already found Captain America; I can’t leave May back at the apartment by herself.” Peter slid out of his chair, slipping behind Clint and Steve, giving Tony a quick thumbs-up and snatching his backpack from where he’d left it by the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. Just gonna change in the bathroom and head home.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

Peter had been in his street clothes by the time everyone but Natasha and Clint had trickled out of the conference room, already waiting in front of the elevator with his _Stark Industries Intern_ badge pinned to his hoodie.

Natasha gave Clint a last side hug – “I’ll call when I get there.” – and took the stairs, leaving Clint to wait beside Peter as Steve spoke with Tony. He had to muss Parker’s hair to keep from scowling over this whole situation; the kid shouldn’t have had to deal with this kind of shit, not in _their_ city. Of course, that it was theirs – the unofficial headquarters for the _Avengers_, the home city of _Captain America _and _Spider-Man,_ the place where powered people were becoming so commonplace that they had twitter accounts and didn’t even make the news – maybe all of _that_ had been what brought the Winter Soldier in the first place. New York would have been a fertile hunting ground if he was looking for a challenge, and an easy decision if he was targeting members of the _Avengers_ in specific. And, even knowing that, Peter and Jess were just going back out into their city, back to apartments with thin walls and shitty-ass sightlines.

Clint pressed the _up_ button, stepping into the lift as Steve followed, then leaning onto his boyfriend’s shoulder as the car ascended. “Well, this sucks.”

“Now we know what we’re up against.” Steve pressed a kiss to his forehead, arm slipping around Clint’s waist. “Sam texted; the agents have cleared the apartment, so we can go home after breakfast, at least.”

That presented a whole _new_ set of problems. Sam might have texted Steve, but he had _called_ ‘Tasha, and she’d relayed his words back to Clint. All three of them – four if he was counting Phil – knew that sending Steve back home would be like painting a star-spangled shoot-me sign on the side of their apartment building. Nat and Sam had agreed to keep an eye on the place from Kate’s old third floor apartment. With the solar boarded up and weather-sealed, it was the safest option, for the moment.

The elevator dinged onto what had once been Steve’s – and was now_ their_ – private floor. Clint scanned the door open, holding it to let his boyfriend go through first.“Babe… you should stay here.”

“What? Why-?” Steve spun to face him in the entryway, barely giving Clint time to close the door before his voice dropped, sullen. “I don’t need protecting, Clint.”

“I know, it’s just… The apartment is safe, but this place is a _fortress_. If the Winter Soldier is after_ you_ – even if he’s just after powered folks in general – I’d feel way better knowing you’ve got Tony and an army of killer roombas to back you up from inside here.” Ducking his head, Clint pressed Steve into a hug right there in the hallway, mumbling a soft admission against his shoulder. “And, yeah, I’ll feel better knowing you’re not on your own while I’m gone.”

“Now _you’re_ going somewhere?” Steve’s breath ruffled his hair as he cupped his hand against Clint’s cheek. “You haven’t even healed up from this morning.”

“There are still back channels, but I can’t access them if I stay here. I’m just going to follow up a few leads, but I’ll be back home by next Friday.” His boyfriend looked unconvinced when Clint pulled back from the hug to see his face. “Look, Steve, if you_ are_ his target – and it’s starting to look like it might be you and Tony both – it would be better if you’re here. I don’t want to ask Sam to bunk up in Kate’s old place permanently. Plus, we’ll know for sure if he’s after you if nothing happens, right? I can book it right back here if something goes wrong.”

“From across the river? While being_ shot_ at? One: That’s a terrible idea. Two:I run faster than you.” Steve pulled away with a grimace.

“On the _ground_. Where you would be a sitting duck for any marksman worth his salt.” Clint slid his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Among guys like us, the Winter Soldier is the _best_.”

“Well, I might disagree with that opinion, sweetheart.” Steve’s nose brushed his as he leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to Clint’s lips.

“The best with _bullets_, then.” Slipping back into Steve’s embrace would have been so simple, but he and Natasha would need to head out before too long; Clint wasn’t up for purposely going into the field still in his pyjamas. He slid past Steve, reaching for his hand as he headed for their bedroom. “We should at least get dressed and head back down. Since Tony went to the trouble of nearly setting the place ablaze to make pancakes.”

•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**
> 
> **Clint Barton Bingo:** Peter Parker (O5)
> 
> **•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**


	3. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint finds answers and Steve loses his cool.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

** __ ** _Bzzt. Hum. Bzzt. Hum._

Both notes had been delivered, at least one had been found. Hawkeye hadn’t returned, but Falcon was in the apartment below. Movement around the building, a swarm of false civilians, subtly unsubtle. SHIELD had brought furtive glances, taken too many pieces and pictures. Best to return, to remain hidden, despite the buzz, despite the smell and the gnawing hunger. Move when night fell. _Better that way._

_Bzzt. Hum. Bzzt. Hum._

Electrified neon pulses, sign an unnerving reminder. The old sound of cleansing. Softly erasing progress and past. They kept the edge, the vigilance – _Paranoia_ – made sleeping difficult, but the pulses came in steady time. They were a clock, constant rhythm in that chaos.

_Bzzt. Hum._

Sickly sweetness, the steady drips just below were overwhelming, leaving the floor forever sticky underfoot. Not the first time; not the last. There had been worse fluids. _Never this long._ Waiting was familiar, listening to the hum of conversation at the counter, the tired and tipsy below. They wouldn’t ever know.

_Bzzt. Hum. Bzzt. Hum. Bzzt. Hum._

A bark of voices, curses muttered in long rolls as chairs were pushed and feet shuffled. A handful of people, half-asleep and staggering, wandered into the dark. One looked back. Bulldog face and wide shoulders. Hard-hat, work boots, armed to the teeth to those that could see. A threat, but not the focus; another lone gunman, slinking away unnoticed in the night._ Keep walking. _The bell chimed a last ring and the door slammed; closed, door locked, flat top scraped.

_Click! Light. Breathe._

The Scripto walked across fingers as the moments of waiting stretched out.

_Bzzt. Hum. Bzzt. Hummmm… Silence._

_Now._ Coat on, cap down; rifles unnoticed inside a yoga mat and bag. Door barred with a desk, this place as secure as it could be. Quick shimmy through the window and down the old fire-escape. All that was left was to walk, across the river and uptown.

_Click! Light. Breathe._

Finding a new nest and setting up; difficult, but not impossible. Movement below; an unnaturally graceful figure flitting alley to alley, approaching from the south. This one had arrived sooner than expected, movements predatory, heedless of being caught, hair pulled back and teeth bared. _Like a rabid dog._ Still, too close, that presented a problem. Angles all wrong; a car in the way, but that didn’t matter. Adjusting for obstacles – trees, cars, _people_ – second nature. Two quick shots through a windscreen, the objective was complete._ Well done. _The check of a pocket. One left in the pack; the smallest reward.

_Click! Light. Breathe._

Blankly staring eyes in empty parking deck; hanging haze of tobacco smoke at roof’s edge. The body was a problem. _Leave it and go._ But the evidence; traceable and too close to the objective. Better away, hidden from prying eyes. No need to know how close the danger had come. _Nearly missed it._

The note was short. Easy to write and slide into place. The body was light. Easy to lift. Little mess if the head was hanging down. When the door opened, though, nothing to do but drop the corpse. Easy to run, hidden in the shadows.

Back to the nest, rifles retrieved. _Move on._ Reposition. A different roof as the snowfall began. The rush of activity below. Agents, plain clothes but easy to spot, swarming like flies over roadkill. _Not far off. _Hunker down, heedless of the cold. That was familiar, almost comforting. Settle in to wait. _Always time to wait._

_Click! Light. Breathe._

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Steve stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling of his quarters, wishing there was something above him besides an endless expanse of white. They might have covered the water marks when they repainted the bedroom and put up new plaster, but at least his and Clint’s apartment had the swirling pattern in the knockdown; had crown moulding, with its dips and ridges and tiny spider hiding corners. Steve would have had something to distract himself with if he had been home, instead of stuck here.

He took a deep breath and rolled over. It had only been four days; he’d been away from Clint longer than that; lots of times, in fact. _Just last week._ And, as far as house arrest went, Steve couldn’t do much better than Stark Tower. He had access to a range, a gym, and three-hundred-sixty degrees of prime skyline view for his art. Between the employee cafeteria and the semi-hovering presence of Agent Coulson – who, it seemed, had been convinced by Clint that Steve might starve if left alone – the food was certainly better than what he could have made himself. He had company, too!

Though, to Steve’s growing chagrin, it was mostly from an exasperated Tony. Apparently, the trick to getting Tony Stark to stop working and leave the tower once in a while was to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to do so. Steve might be feeling a little antsy – missing his early morning runs with Lucky, or late night trips to the waffle place across the street or to snag a pizza from Rigoletto’s – but _he_ hadn’t been the reason Pepper had used her override codes on the security system. Beyond the contingent of plain-clothes SHIELD agents now lurking throughout the public access floors – beyond finding_ another_ of the Winter Soldier’s corpses in the tower parking garage on Saturday –it had taken Ms. Potts co-opting JARVIS to keep Tony inside.

_Steve _didn’t have JARVIS as his jailor. _Yet._ He was staying put, but everyone was on tenterhooks. There was only so much any of them could do but wait for progress reports from the teams outside; and, day by day, slowly annoy the hell out of each other.

Steve was only in bed right now because it was the most comfortable place to glower at the walls and ceilings as he fought not to feel useless. He’d promised not to brood when he and Clint had been driven over, and he was trying to stick to it, to avoid getting melancholic. Which was easier said than done; it meant he was spending a lot of his time locked in the apartment by himself, avoiding public spaces because he just couldn’t stay positive under the growing crush of helplessness.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand – offering a blessed distraction – and Steve snatched for it, hopeful. He could feel his cheeks tense from grinning at seeing the message from Clint.

_**HawkGuy**_  
[_Hey. I know it’s super late but I had a sec. Mission is going okay. Freezing my ass off but hope you’re dreaming sweet dreams._]

Steve wasn’t and – with the way he tended to be about waking up – he might not be dreaming, or even sleeping, at all tonight, but getting this message had at least made him feel a little better.

_**StevenG**_  
[_I’m awake. Glad it’s going well._]  


_**HawkGuy**_  
[_Oh no._]  
[_Did I wake you up?_]  
[_I’m sorry._]

_**StevenG**_  
[_Couldn’t sleep._]

_**HawkGuy**_  
[_Wait why not?_]

_**StevenG**_  
[_Bed’s too big._]

It _was_ a little bigger than the one in their apartment, but that was only part of the problem. Not only was this bed not in said apartment, but Clint wasn’t in this bed. Clint was on a mission – bruises from Steve’s freak out moment probably just hitting that mustard phase – when he should have been home, or at least here. Steve was sure both of them would be sleeping better if he was.

Not that he couldn’t sleep when Clint was working, or vice versa, but at least in their real bed Steve had the option of hugging Clint’s pillow and curling up with Lucky. Both helped. Without either, Steve had turned the bed in their tower quarters and pushed it against one of the bedroom walls, wedging himself back against it each night. It worked well enough.

_**HawkGuy**_  
[_Nat’s with but wanna call?_]

Steve laughed to himself. _Was that even a question?_

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Clint picked up on the first ring, knowing Nat was going to give him grief for the dopey-ass smile splitting his face. Seeing Steve – lit mostly by the glow of his phone screen, highlighting his sharp nose and strong jaw – just did that to him. Clint couldn’t help it; looking down at the sleepily smiling man on the screen, he couldn’t bring himself to care, either. “Sorry to keep you up.”

Steve shook his head. The screen tilted a bit as he rolled onto his side and flicked on a light. He looked tired; hopefully this was the first sleepless night, not the fourth. _“It’s fine. You can make it up to me when you get back.”_

“Yeah.” Clint had_ plans_ when this was over. Plans that would involve keeping Steve up; maybe a little rest in between, but… But that would come after this job was done, which – even when he got back to New York – it probably wouldn’t be for a while. Clint tried to stay cheery.“It’s looking like we’ll be landing Thursday night, but I’m probably not coming back to the tower. I’ll be at the apartment, or maybe over with Kate since the auction’s Friday.”

Steve’s brows dropped, face shifting into a scowl on the screen in Clint’s palm. _“Clint, that’s stupid; there will be civilians at that event, and the ballroom is wall-to-wall glass. You can’t go; that’s the softest target imaginable.”_

“It is, but…” Clint agreed with Steve; it was something that probably_ should_ have been avoided, but the problem with secret operations was that they had to_ stay_ secret. Keeping the arrival of the world’s deadliest assassin quiet had gotten a hell of a lot more difficult after a body had shown up practically_ in_ the tower. Cancelling one event shouldn’t have been a problem, but it would lead to questions, to people poking around more than they already did, and it might risk spooking the soldier off. Even without knowing what triggered it, the Winter Soldier’s vendetta against Steve seemed to have drawn him into the open.

Clint didn’t like being bait, but the Winter Soldier was a professional. When he’d attacked at Thanksgiving and New Year’s, he hadn’t left civilian casualties; he might shoot Clint, but he probably wouldn’t go after anyone else._ Probably. _Besides, there was the issue that… “… if I _am_ on his list of targets, and I_ don’t_ go, there will still be civilians and just Kate all on her own. If he’s expecting me and I _don’t_ show up…”

“_That still might be safer.”_

Natasha sat next to him on the small motel bed, leaning her face into frame. “Sam and I will be nearby, Steve.”

“_I’ll come with you-”_

“Did you forget the dead super woman he practically addressed to you?” Clint cut him off; there was no way _that_ was going to happen. “Or the _threat?”_

A_ third_ note had been left on the windscreen of Happy’s personal car in the same garage as the body-dump, hastily scribbled on a sticky piece of receipt paper.

[ _CAPTAIN WILL DIE IF HE LEAVES MORE TO FINISH _]

He might have the penmanship of a grade-schooler writing upside down in the dark, but, as far as Clint was concerned, the Winter Soldier’s missives weren’t the slightest bit cryptic. _A helpful monster, at least._

“_No…”_

Clint could_ hear_ the sulk in Steve’s voice, even before seeing his sleepy pout to confirm it.

‘Tasha nudged him with her shoulder, taking over the conversation. “Any lead on her, Steve?”

“_Another Rebirth ghost; she doesn’t seem to exist anywhere.”_ Clint watched as Steve shrugged one-sidedly, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. _“The scene was a mess; part of the maintenance crew found the body, and a camera feed shows someone moving it. Guy wore a ballcap and a heavy coat, but you can see the mask from one angle.”_

“So he shot her and dropped her off like a cat with a dead bird?” Whoever the hell he was, the Winter Soldier was – to Clint’s mind – more than a little sick in the head. It wasn’t enough to just kill this woman and leave her; he’d needed to show off his handiwork and then make sure they got the _literal,_ hand-written message. “And you still think it’s a good idea for you to leave the tower and come with me? With this guy going all Highlander on people – other damn _ghosts,_ Steve – just because they’ve gotten the serum?”

“_I- I’d feel better if I did, but… it’s probably best I not.”_

“Sorry to change the subject,” by her tone, Natasha wasn’t the_ least_ bit sorry at all, and Clint was grateful. “but is there any word from Bruce’s team?”

“_Hulk stayed frozen for a whole minute before the big guy woke up and smashed the lab. Nobody injured at least.”_ Steve sounded more like himself as he answered, though Clint’s stomach dropped when he found out why as his boyfriend kept talking. _“But it slowed his metabolism to a crawl; Agent Coulson is having the second prototype moved up here, since I’m less of an explosion risk.”_

“No. _That_ would be stupid.”

Steve adjusted the angle of his phone; it looked like he was trying to stay in view of the camera without looking at Clint’s face on the screen, his expression well into a full, angry sulk. _“There’s no other way to test how it interacts with someone like me. It might be how we stop him. Dr. Cho is going to monitor the whole thing; you know her.”_

Clint settled his free hand below his ribs without thinking. _Yeah,_ he _did._

His boyfriend’s voice was low, petulant, nearly whining. _“This is something I can do to help, Clint.”_

Oh, _there_ it was. Steve didn’t do helpless – not _at all_, not even approaching _well_ – so, of course, he was going to volunteer for testing jerry-rigged Hydra equipment if there was even the slightest chance it might help the mission. Steve’s need to stick his neck out was a fucking compulsion; an honourable one, to be sure, but a damn pain in the ass one, too. Telling him not to do it would assure that Steve would both test the damn machine _and_ be pissed afterwards, regardless of whether or not said test was successful. The best thing to do was just drop it, try to reassure Steve that Clint only thought the _plan_ – and not _Steve_ himself – was stupid, and hope his boyfriend came out the other side semi-chastened when it inevitably blew up in his face. Clint chuckled sadly; there was a reason Tony and Steve were friends, after all.

“We’ll find him, babe.” He wouldn’t say _yes_ – wouldn’t agree to what sounded like a ridiculous idea – but Clint could at least try to make his sweetie feel better. “This whole thing sucks, but… Um, maybe he’s just taunting you ‘cause he’s saving the best for last?”

By the confused glances he was getting from both his partner and his lover, Clint realized that wasn’t as reassuring as he’d hoped it would be.

Still, Steve’s soft giggle bubbled up from his phone. _“That’s not a pleasant thought… but does that mean you think I’m the best?”_

“You know I do.” Clint winked. “Steve’s the best, right ‘Tasha?”

“When it comes to causing me emetic reactions, you’re both pretty well matched.” She feigned retching into her hand, green eyes laughing.

“Ignore my partner; she’s sugar deprived.”

“_Sam’s still back at Kate’s apartment waiting for her, and we’ve got clean sheets if they need ‘em.”_

Clint snorted so hard that he almost dropped his phone._ God damn!_ Steve couldn’t be feeling too down on himself if – even while sleep-cranky – he could manage to be that much of a shit.

His lover’s barb didn’t go unnoticed by the other person in the room, though; even if she _was_ grinning, Natasha still snatched up a pillow and chucked it at his head.

Clint ducked, trying to keep the video call going while avoiding Natasha, now dual wielding bolsters. “Hey, he made the joke, not me; smack Steve!”

“You thought the buttermilk war was _over?”_ Her madcap smile told Clint that the combination of overwork and stress was finally getting to Nat, too.

It would be best to just get their manic moment over with; an old-fashioned, semi-friendly pillow war certainly wasn’t the_ worst_ thing they’d ever done to break the tension on a shitty mission; at least it if it didn’t end in too much property damage. “Get some sleep, babe. I’m off to battle.” As he hung up on Steve’s infectious laughter, Clint found he didn’t even mind taking a feather pillow to the face.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

“Coulson, we’re on the ground. Good luck with Jones tomorrow.”

“_Copy,”_ answered the staticky voice in Clint’s ear. He lifted his hand to end the transmission, but still caught Phil mutter, ever so softly – _“It’s not Ms. Jones that concerns me.”_ – before Coulson hung up. _Huh._

Clint turned off the last of the support systems and set the quinjet to cloak, then stepped out into the snow, jogging to catch up to where Natasha was out ahead of him. “This is the place?”

Set low under a blanket of heavy snow, this bunker looked more fortified than the ones they’d cleared out on their last missions. Though, even for a place in the middle of nowhere, hidden under the frozen wastes of northern Siberia, this facility looked too still; empty in a way that made Clint’s skin crawl with goosebumps, even under all of his layers.

“End of the line.” Natasha nodded at his side, one lock of red hair twisting in the wind where it had escaped her hood. “Scans don’t show any heat or movement; whole place looks dead.”

“Well, then; here’s hoping the dead didn’t leave any _more_ ghosts for us.” With no other access point, Clint reached for the door. It stuck, but the hatch closure turned under firmer pressure, opening onto a short hall and a stairwell descending into the facility. He stepped through, and Natasha followed, closing the door behind them and plunging the hallway back into darkness.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

The stairs were intact, spiralling them downward for what Clint could only guess was probably four or five stories before abruptly ending. Their red filtered flashlights fell on another hatch door, this one yawning open, giving glimpses of an expansive room beyond. Carefully, he reached a hand along the wall, fingers grasping the dusty handle of a large knife switch. Clint looked back to Natasha until she begrudgingly nodded and stepped further into the doorway. No point in both of them getting fried. Or _shot_ if this tripped some sort of alarm. Clint threw the switch.

Nothing happened. For a few seconds, anyway.

His aids buzzed softly as they picked up the low hum of the connecting circuit. Overhead, there was the pop of a small explosion, and Clint could hear a soft, glassy tinkling to his left. _Blown light._ A second quickly followed, then a third, but the fourth blinked on, and others after it, throwing a sickly green light around the room.

Clint looked up, eyes landing on a hulking man in front of him. He drew, took aim, and then- realized that the man was staring, unseeing, from behind the curved wall of a glass tube, shot dead while still inside; one to the head, one to the heart. There were tubes on either side of him, and on either side of them. Some were empty, but those that weren’t held only corpses; frozen, cleanly executed husks. “Holy hell…”

Clint toggled the camera on his headset, hand reaching back to signal to Natasha as he spoke over the recording. “Facility is definitely empty, except that there’s all these tanks-”

“There’s a baker’s dozen, Hawkeye.”

“Right, thirteen tanks.” He turned, visually scanning the curved wall of holding tanks across the far side of the room. “Seven are empty. The other six are full of some very big- Very _dead_ people.” Clint swivelled to where Natasha was already trying to power up what looked to be the main control console for the facility. “Jeez, do you think all of them-?”

“Not everyone’s as comfortable as you are about sharing a title, Hawkeye.” She nodded, face serious as her eyes scanned over buttons and dials. “We had a theory he might be eliminating his comrades.”

“So is this random?” Assuming the Winter Soldier they_ knew_ about had been in one of these, that meant there were six others unaccounted for. Subtracting the first two men – Clint called them November and January in his head – and the woman from earlier this week – Parking Lot – that left three. The Winter Soldier, and three other ghosts. _Shit._ “Was this a planned cull or has he _actually_ gone rogue on them?”

“No idea.” Something sparked beneath ‘Tasha’s fingers, and she yanked her hand back with a low hiss. “This system isn’t exactly modern… and _half_ of it is frozen or corrupted. Think this thing Tony sent along will actually _work?”_

“Dunno.”

“Let’s plug it in and hope for the best, then?” Natasha slipped the tech from her belt, slotting it into one of the console ports and taking a minute step back. It whirred and beeped. The console lit up, no arcs or sparking in sight, and both of them released a breath.

“I’ll get close ups and start setting the charges.” At his partner’s nod, Clint started warily in the direction of the tanks. They were more glass than metal, larger than the ones in the other facilities that he surmised had been the _travel_ versions, but they were close enough to be recognizable as the same tech. One had even leaked, blue white fluid mixed with blood and frozen on the floor beneath it. He didn’t want to, but Clint had to look up to get a good shot. The man on the other side of the glass looked like he was sleeping, killed while his eyes were still closed, short hair suspended in ice, blood spidering into frozen flowers over his heart and right eye.

Clint had seen hundreds of dead bodies; he’d left enough behind looking far worse than this that it shouldn’t have caught his breath in his throat like it did. But this one was different. If what he and Nat thought was true, this man –_ all_ of these people – were Rebirth survivors.With a faint grin on his face, blond hair barely falling onto his forehead, frozen forever in ice and death, this one in particular hit just a hair too close to home.

Clint tore his eyes away, took a step forward, and primed the first detonator.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

The cryo-preservation chamber wasn’t arriving until the fourteenth. Steve had volunteered his newly freed time to Agent Coulson, holding back his snark when Phil asked if he’d eaten recently just for something to do besides stare at the walls of his apartment. Granted, there were other agents – along with automated systems and analysis programs to go over the findings – but there were some connections that only humans could make, certain leaps of logic that were too out of the box, even for machines as smart as JARVIS and the programs SHIELD used. That brought Steve to the conference room, where Phil Coulson had spread out paper copies of every incident from the past year known to have involved the Winter Soldier, along with notes on dozens of strange phenomena in the city with no known cause. Most of it would be unrelated, but there might be something.

For the moment, Steve and Agent Coulson were rehashing the initial attacks on him. Phil had run the numbers, again, and seemed to think something was off. Steve was curious because – if Agent Coulson was right – it might get the house arrest lifted a little sooner. Maybe. “So you’re saying he _wasn’t_ shooting at me?”

“No, only that it appears, at least in the November attack, that the trajectory analysis puts the bullet hitting the victim _as_ he was approaching you, Captain.” Phil shook his head gently.

“But that would mean he shot someone coming _at_ me.” Steve crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair, head tipped to look up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t make much sense, does it? Protecting someone you want dead from an attack by another agent?”

“Then why the hell would he take out his own people?” The querying voice was terse, and distinctly female. Steve looked up just as the conference door swung closed and Jessica’s hands slammed onto the table, her own brow furrowing as she glared down at the evidence and files spread out across the table. She nodded with a smirk toward one of the photos. “Also, seriously, I could’ve – I _have_ – gotten better shots drunk and concussed. And bleeding. If you guys ever need to hire a photographer?”

“Ms. Jones.” Phil inclined his head in the barest of polite nods as Steve finally managed to a cogent sentence.

“Why are _you_ here?” Her brash nonchalance and sharpness didn’t usually get on Steve’s nerves – sometimes it was even comforting. Jessica Jones didn’t give special treatment to him or anybody else; she treated everyone like a barely tolerable nuisance, even if she _liked_ them – but Steve really wasn’t in the mood to deal with Jess’s shit today.

“To _help._ Obviously.” She rounded on him, giving his knee a sharp poke before dropping into the chair beside him. “I may not want to do that whole…” Jessica twirled her hand in the air with a sigh, “The whole _righteous hero_ shtick, or even the vigilante thing, any more, but Agent over there said you’re sorting through weird shit. I _know_ weird shit, so…”

“This is a dry meeting.” It was an unnecessary barb, but Steve threw it out there, anyway.

Jessica turned to face him fully, jaw clenching, then pulling into the sweetest, most innocent smile Steve had ever seen. Her visage held the sort of beaming purity that shouldn’t have been possible for anything that wasn’t a baby bunny; paired with a tone so saccharine it might have given _him_ diabetes, it was one of the creepiest things Steve had ever seen. “Good thing I only brought my unvarnished, glowing personality, then, _Captain.”_

“Ms. Jones.” Phil cleared his throat, gaze narrowing a bit, and slid a folder closer to where Jessica’s hand clenched the table. “We compiled a list of strange sightings, murders, unexplained events that don’t tie back to any of the known… _powered_ individuals in the city. There are a few that seem to line up, starting from back in September. If you’d take a look?”

“Sure thing.” Jessica slid the folder open, leafing through it beside him.

As she read, Agent Coulson cleared his throat once. Twice. Phil coughed, and Steve looked to see if he was alright, only to be met by a blank-eyed stare. Agent Coulson inclined his head ever-so-slightly to the left, holding Steve’s gaze for a few seconds, then handing him a second folder as he started speaking, “The first incident of interest was in Redhook; break-in at a tapas bar. Owner reported a masked man with a gun forcing his way in after close of business. He shot the lock off the security door, then wandered out. No injuries.”

“Yeah I remember that one. Did they tell you he chucked a minivan through the window and shot the lock to get _out?”_

“No, we weren’t aware of that.” Phil scribbled a note on the margin of his paper before continuing. “The next incident was in Brooklyn at a hotel in mid-October. The night manager reported a break in _through_ the laundry area _wall.”_

Steve flipped to the next page, looking at the wide hole through the cinderblock. The hotel was new, but he remembered there being a smaller hotel and bar there when he was coming up. It was nice that some things hadn’t changed too much.

At his elbow, Jessica _hmm-_ed. “Yeah, I remember that one. Got a call from the cops over it.” She leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as she set the folder down and started thumbing through her phone. “Hospitality woman said – let’s see – _‘Big masked bastard busted in like the fucking Koolaid man.’_ Says he gave her a two-grand tip and backed out.”

“A tip?”

“‘_He reached in his pocket, dropped a wad of hundreds on the floor, and walked out.’”_

“That was _nice_ of him?” Agent Coulson sounded as confused as Steve felt.

“Silence is easy to buy when people need the money.”

In the wake of Jessica’s words, Agent Coulson flipped to the next page. “Then, in November – that’s just_ before_ he shot you the first time,Captain Rogers– a crane operator reported a suspicious individual by the East River.”

“Lifting a motorcycle over your head and throwing it at a car _is_ reasonably suspicious.” Steve read quickly through the limited information. With what he saw, he couldn’t help looking askance at the woman beside him. “Suspect described as having dark hair in a ponytail, black boots, and a leather jacket.”

“Is _that_ why a bunch of guys showed up and ruined my Thanksgiving?” Jessica slapped the folder closed on the conference table. “‘Cause it sure as shit wasn’t me. I followed up on that; witnesses said it was definitely a guy, and that he was muttering to himself in something – uh-” Jessica tapped at her phone, again, _“‘definitely wasn’t English. Maybe something Slavic?’_ And I definitely _only_ speak English, so…”

Steve had read the reports, and none of Jessica’s information had been in any of them. He knew she was a P.I., but still… “Nothing you’ve mentioned was in any of our reports. Exactly how did _you_ get all that information, Ms. Jones?”

“By not looking like I got my clothes at Acronyms-R-Us – no offence, Agent – and by knowing when _not_ to be a dick… And I gotta go.” Pushing away from the table, Jessica stood up. “I’ve got a date for Valentine’s.”

Steve rolled his eyes as he looked up at her. “It’s the _thirteenth.”_

“Yes, I can _count,_ but going out on the _fourteenth_ is expensive, crowded, and kitschy. I’d rather be stabbed. _Again. _Plus, I’m pretty sure we’re all done here. ” She leaned across the table, sticking her hand out at Phil. After he shook it, Jessica straightened, hands sliding into her pockets. “I’ll call you if I hear anything else, Agent-?”

“Coulson. Phil Coulson.”

“Right. Have a _great_ day, Agent Coulson.” Waving over her shoulder, Jessica Jones left the room.

Phil sat back down, gaze settling on the file in front of him. The SHIELD agent took a deep breath in through his nose.

_Yeah._ Steve got it; Jessica had gotten on his nerves, too. Still, she was gone, and they had work still to do. These three incidents – strange that they were – looked to have been the work of the Winter Soldier. There could still be more. Even if there weren’t, Steve was confounded as to how no one had connected them before _now._ “Why did none of this get looked into immediately?”

“The bar went to the police because it sounded like a robbery. The other two?” Phil shrugged, voice oddly sombre. “The agency had a lot of people to clear, and bigger things on our radar. Until we saw the videos, these looked to be only a standard sounding robbery and somebody punching through a wall and throwing a motorbike; sadly, neither of those is an uncommon event in this city.”

Phil Coulson reached forward, scooping the files from the table. He shuffled them into a haphazard pile, then slid that into a filebox. Agent Coulson stood, only to look down at the box held in his hand. He set it on the table, reaching across the pluck the last folder right out of Steve’s hand before lidding the box. “But I am inclined to agree with Ms. Jones; we’re finished for the day.”

“We are?”

“Yes. I’ll be busy for the afternoon, so you’ll have to get lunch on your own, Steve.” Agent Coulson walked out of the conference room and straight for the elevator, not even bothering to turn around as the doors slid closed behind him.

Steve had never seen the man leave so abruptly. Steve had never heard Agent Coulson call him _Steve,_ either.

_Fuck._

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**
> 
> **Clint Barton Bingo:** Phil Coulson (I4)
> 
> **•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**


	4. Rusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which poor decisions are made, and Clint and Steve finally meet the Winter Soldier.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

The trip through that frozen hell-scape – and what he’d seen beneath it – was still turning over in the back of his brain, but Clint could just about push it down knowing he was going to see Steve. He and ‘Tasha had been back on the ground in New York at nine the night before, and then had to drive down to Bed-Stuy. Nat and Sam had opted to stay overnight in Kate’s old place for one more day. And Clint had finally gone back home to the fourth floor.

With the windows still boarded over upstairs, he’d ended up crashing on the couch, but it wasn’t like he didn’t sometimes do that when he and Steve were apart, anyway. He might not pout about it, but Clint got the sentiment about the bed being _too big_ when Steve wasn’t in it with him. Plus, it was still a little draughty since the solar window had been so hastily patched, and he’d spent two days in Siberia; Clint was pretty sure he’d earned a warm night curled under his quilts on the couch.

He’d woken up extra early this morning, showered and dressed for the event, then thrown some stuff in his duffel; a change of clothes for tonight, some of Steve’s things to make the tower seem a little homier, since his lover was stuck there, at least for a while longer. Some _supplies._ Clint had chuckled, tossed on a coat, and headed out well before dawn just to beat the bakery line, but even that had been worth it. He’d gotten to the tower just after six with plenty of time to spare. Now, Clint was almost vibrating out of his skin as he stepped into the elevator, grinning at JARVIS’ cordial greeting.

“_Welcome back, Agent Barton. It is good to see you looking healthy again. And so early, as well.”_

“Thanks, J-man. Mind telling me where Steve is?” Clint lifted the little cardboard box and coffee carrier, then adjusted the strap of his duffel when it shifted. “Brought him a surprise.”

_“Captain Rogers has been in your quarters since his meeting yesterday with Agent Coulson.”_

JARVIS’ tone could have been disappointed or sympathetic; Clint couldn’t quite tell. _Oh, well._ “Is Steve awake, JARVIS?” He _should_ have been, since it was after dawn, but Steve _might_ have slept in. Or stayed up for the last few days and just passed out; he’d done _that_ before, more often than sleeping in.

“_He is. I can alert him of your arrival.”_

“Naw, this is a surprise. Thanks, though.” The elevator dinged cheerily as it came to a stop on the floor that held their second apartment, and Clint offered a friendly nod as he stepped out of the lift car. “Happy Valentine’s Day, JARVIS.”

_“And the same to you, Agent Barton.”_

Clint keyed into their quarters, cardboard coffee tray balanced in one hand, tiny cake box in the other. He stepped into the empty kitchen, setting both down and dropping his duffel, then followed the sound of soft humming into the bedroom. Steve had headphones on, head bobbing gently as he rummaged through their closet. Clint wasn’t surprised to see Steve up and working, or listening to music, though it was a little odd to see him walking around their room wearing _Clint’s_ too-short tac-pants. _That_ was a step up from t-shirts, but it was still kind of cute, in a clingy way. Even if Clint was going to be thinking about how nicely his pants draped on Steve’s legs and ass whenever _he_ wore them from now on. He slipped up behind his boyfriend, tugging back the headphones and dodging out of habit, pulling Steve in close with a grin once his boyfriend’s swing hit empty air. “Hey, babe.”

“Clint!?” Steve’s expression hung in that space between surprise and shock as his hands settled onto Clint’s shoulders. “What are you doing here? It’s barely six-”

Steve was always warm, and Clint lived for that cute little squeak his boyfriend made any time he got an unexpected kiss. He nipped at Steve’s lower lip, soothing the tiny bite with a swipe of his tongue, then pulled away just far enough to whisper against Steve’s mouth. “Happy Valentine’s Day. Brought you a surprise.”

With a fluttering sigh, Steve leaned back further, offering a shy smile. “I thought we agreed?”

“_You_ agreed.” Clint smirked, reaching for Steve’s hand and gently tugging, leading him back through their bedroom. He chuckled, shaking his head at the pouting face that earned him. _“‘No reservations or cutesy stuff.’_ I know _you_ promised that, and to stay here, but _I_ didn’t promise anything.”

“Clint…” Stopping in the doorway of the kitchen, Steve tilted his head, looking almost embarrassed.

It made Clint want to kiss that expression right off his face. So – lightly – he did. Then he grasped Steve’s other hand, pulling him the rest of the way to their little two-top dining table and gently pushing Steve toward a dining chair. “It's nothing big-” Clint set the to-go cups down in front of him, along with the little square box. “- coffee and cake – I just...” He grabbed Steve’s hand, again, lifting it up and pressing it to his cheek. “I missed you.”

Without a shirt, he could watch Steve’s blush start at the base of his neck, working all the way up as he stroked his fingers below Clint’s ear. “I missed you, too, sweetheart…”

He knew he was smiling like a dope, but today was the day for that, so what did it matter? Clint leaned into the touch, winking back at his boyfriend. “Is that why you're wearing my pants?”

“M-maybe…?”

Clint kissed the inside of Steve’s wrist, then pushed back from the table to get some silverware. “Anyone ever told you you’re not normal, Captain Rogers?”

“I’ve heard that on occasion, Agent Barton.” His boyfriend followed, slipping behind him as he was getting the forks, lips pressing just below his ear with a contented sigh. Steve bent to rest his head on Clint’s shoulder, voice soft and slightly needy as he asked, “Can you stay? Just for a little while?”

“Only for a _little_ while.” If Clint Barton had one true weakness – one even worse than caffeine deprivation – it was_ that_ tone inSteve’s voice. Better to establish that he definitely,absolutely,_ had to leave_, even if there was always a part of him that wouldn’t mind being_ delayed. _“I _promised_ I’d be meeting Kate_ at _seven.”

Steve huffed against his cheek. “Mission or not, this sucks.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got a lot more to work with, now.” Tony was probably overclocking JARVIS as they spoke, trying to work through the excess of data he and Nat had dropped off at headquarters the night before. As soon as they knew_ who_ they were looking for, it would be that much easier to scan for him. The Winter Soldier wouldn’t be a ghost for much longer – not if Clint had anything to say about it – and then he could take Steve back home.“It’ll be done soon.”

Nodding against Clint’s neck, Steve gave him another light squeeze. “Yeah. I know it will.”

Clint turned in his embrace, arms snaking around to tug his boyfriend closer. He tipped his head up for a real kiss, tongue pressing forward, tasting coffee and toothpaste and _Steve_ before he pulled back. “C’mon, babe. We’ll get him. You’ll see.”

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

They hadn’t even gotten to the cake, but Steve didn’t care. It had been worth it to lift Clint onto the counter, settle between his legs, and kiss him breathless. No biting, at least not from Steve, since Clint would be taking photos all day, but… Steve could feel his ears tingling as he traced a finger down his own neck. Clint’s marks would be gone before this time tomorrow, but still… _Worth it._Time much better spent in his lover’s arms than wasted on eating. The cake would keep; Clint had been on a schedule.

He felt very proud of himself for _not_ making his boyfriend late… Even if Steve had felt even_ more_ proud for the way Clint had to keep making adjustments on his way out the door, tugging his hoodie and jacket down as far as he could. Unlike Clint’s tac-pants, those leggings didn’t leave _anything_ to the imagination.

Steve picked up the vest that matched the pants he wore, sliding into it with a sigh. He zipped it up, stepping back to give himself a once-over in the mirror on the back of their closet door. The height difference was small enough that he’d be passable at a distance. No one that knew them well would be looking, either. Natasha and Sam were on call, but would be spending the day having a _civilian date_ in the museums. Tony and Pepper were staying in – they really had no other option – for a quiet day and dinner, provided Pepper could tear Tony away from the deluge of data being sorted in the lab. Agent Coulson was still around, but had only offered a sedate shrug when Steve had asked about his plans as he walked Clint out. Peter would be at school for the next eight hours. Kate would be at the reception with Clint.

Steve knew the two of them could handle themselves, but he also knew how Clint got about civilians in the line of fire; it was something they had in common, and it would leave him vulnerable if Steve’s super-serumed stalker _did_ show up. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off in their initial assessment; Steve didn’t believe that the Winter Soldier was only after him. And, regardless of the risk, he wasn’t going to leave Clint to deal with him on his own, or even with Kate as backup. They were in this together, after all.

It might not have been his smartest idea, but it would work. Yes, the pants were a little too short, but Clint usually tucked his pants into his boots, anyway, so no one would notice the length difference. The rest of the uniform fit decently; the vest was a little loose in the shoulders, bunched a tiny bit at the waist, but it would work well enough. The under layer was standard-issue; black and sleeveless. Although Steve was used to something covering his arms, he did have Clint’s spare black and purple bracers. He might not_ like_ the cold, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.He wasn’t about to wear Clint’s backup field aids, but his spare headset would do in a pinch; his boyfriend’s _was _purple, passable at distance. Steve planned to keep it on listen-only, unless something went wrong.

He frowned at himself in the mirror. The purple sunglasses helped with the fact that they had very different face shapes, although Steve had no idea how Clint dealt with the colour shift at the edge of his vision. At least they weren’t prescription. Luckily, they were both blond, so that was easy enough, though Steve thought his hair looked weird combed up. His stubble was a little too dark, but... Steve added a bandaid to his jaw, and one on the top of his cheek. That looked better, actually. It would be overcast with steady snow most of the day. He’d be fine. It was far from perfect, but it would suffice. After all, the Winter Soldier was hunting Captain America, not Hawkeye.

That meant the shield had to stay, too, but… Steve was just going to observe, and he had a headset. He’d call in if anything happened; there was still a possibility that he was wrong, that Clint would be fine.

Pulling on one of Clint’s hoodies, then layering one of his own coats over it, Steve slid the glasses and headset into his pocket. With the top of the uniform covered, he looked almost like himself. He pulled on a ballcap and slipped out of their quarters. All he had to do was make it to the lobby, then change in the bathroom. The hoodie would work just to get out the doors, lockdown be damned.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Hawkeye had entered the tower, then left thirty-eight minutes later. Gait slightly awkward for the first five minutes, Hawkeye had travelled ten minutes and met Hawkeye outside of a coffee house and ordered: Coffee, cereal, waffles with syrup._ Syrup. Never, again. _Both Hawkeyes walked further uptown after eating; Hawkeye with a duffel bag, Hawkeye with a backpack, hands flying between them in a flurry of conversation. Joking, a few shoves, then into the building, _Hawkeye Heart's-Day Charity Auction_ scrolling across the sign outside. Both appeared ten minutes later, main ballroom, Hawkeye in fitted leggings, cuffed purple boots, closed vest; Hawkeye in a sleeveless high-neck shirt, tights, shimmering purple shorts. Glitter and purple hearts everywhere, on _everything_. Fans pouring in, no queue, just a rush. Cameras flashing; civilians, _children._ Soft target, too much glass. _Vulnerable._ The others would come.

_Click! Light. Breathe._

Waiting, but the snow meant shit visibility. One arrived, building opposite, and sat. Another. Another. All at different points, each out of sight of the others. _Good angles._ Now, more waiting. Hours of waiting. Vigilance. That was the key.

It paid off when the first one, the second arrival, made a move. Black tac-pants, combat vest, edge of the roof. Easy enough to drop, then hide under an eave. Let the snow do the rest for now. Rooftops got busy in this city after dark. Somebody would find it. Second one a few minutes later. Also recognizable from the tanks. _Another one that got away._ Half-finished job, but still took effort, especially to stay unnoticed. Tucked in by an eave just like the other, nice cozy corpses. _That was funny._ Wrong, but funny.

_Click! Light. Breathe._

There was another behind the roof access across the side-street. Had been there a long while, unmoving, barely visible. A possible threat, poorly positioned for a shot. Vagrant, maybe. Possible ally. Hawkeyes kept strange company. _Let it ride for now._

Hawkeye was posing for a photo op, leaning in next to someone with a sharp undercut; a riot of tattoos and an enormous black scarf. Hawkeye was on the other side of the ballroom hugging a civilian, brown waist length hair and glasses, accompanied by a minor.

And then Hawkeye stepped out from behind cover, onto the roof of the adjacent building.

_Click!_

_No._ Stance off, posture too upright, still fluid, but more controlled. Hawkeye would have gone over the air handler, not around. Neither Hawkeye nor Hawkeye moved like a Soldier. Not recognizable as one of Hydra’s, but suspicious, and the memories were hazy. Didn’t want to be seen, was avoiding the sight lines from the floor-to-ceiling ballroom windows, keeping out of the Hawkeyes’ fields of view. Imposter. _Threat._

This was planned as an observation; an opportunity for contact, all intelligence had indicated – at most – the possibility of two other Soldiers. Rifles in the foxhole above the restaurant, along with a fresh pack and the standard small arms. Without the Captain’s attendance, with the presence of so many civilians – _So many kids! –_ preparations had been for self-defence and stealth. Knives and a single gun. _That was the plan_. Two remaining quick options: the COP and the Gerber. Gerber wasn’t empty; one to the first drop, two to the second, left one bullet. One knife. One injection, concentrated, but that would only slow this one down for a time. Just long enough to finish off. Blood on the snow brought things up. Currently, the only option. Best get in as close as possible. Snowfall provided familiar cover. Workable. _Good._

Imposter was moving, adjacent corner now, scanning the roofs, lingering. Searching. _Time to engage._ Blanket had only been for cover. Cold wasn’t an issue. Back to one edge, then sprint and jump to bridge gap. This roof was lower, snow and roll muting impact. _Freeze._

Imposter glanced back, but air handler was good cover; large and rattling, metallic thrum steady as the rush of cars below. _Keep walking_. A quick shift, matching pace on the other side of the unit, footfalls landing in perfect synchronicity. Larger stride, but easy enough to match, even walking backwards. _Almost there._ Keep Imposter on the left, gun on the right. Three metres. Two. _Punch._ The air duct gave like paper.

_Grasp. Pull. Shoot._

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Steve had known something was wrong when the air handler _thunked_ off rhythm, but he still hadn’t been ready. That silver hand had punched out through the air duct like it was wet tissue, grabbing his neck and pulling him through before he could blink. He managed to twist back, the shot clearly meant for his chest hitting him in the left shoulder as his fist collided with formed leather, kevlar, and, underneath it all, a solid jaw.

The Winter Soldier dropped his gun as he landed in a ready stance, hands up, head low, voice muffled. “You’re. Not. Hawkeye.”

“Damn right.”

The Winter Soldier’s head tipped just slightly to the side, leaving him looking almost like a cat that had just seen something strange.

Steve’s mind flew through his options. He was already nearly down an arm, the shot close enough that he’d felt the pressure in the air against his face. It was the left, anyway, so Steve drew it across his midsection as best he could, just like he would have if he’d had a shield with him. Not too many options, but there was one that might work. It was a last resort, but Steve had just seen the Winter Soldier barely stagger from haymaker that would have snapped the neck of anything close to only human. Clint was right there, just across the access street. Steve had to do _something._

The Winter Soldier made that decision for him. He lunged forward, and Steve moved automatically, running straight back at him, tackling at an angle that sent them both over the side, falling too fast, ass over tea-kettle through the air, until Steve’s back slammed through a wall of glass.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

Clint had seen it, but it was already happening too quickly. He shoved away from the huddle around him, running for the alley-side windows. “Hawkeye, crowd control!”

“Everyone away from the windows, east exi-!” The shriek of glass cut off Kate’s words, the shards pealing as they rained across the tile floor. The crowd didn’t need any more instructions after that, flowing in a screaming mass toward the emergency stairs.

Clint stayed where he was, drawing to ready, waiting for either of the figures to move. The one on top did, staggering upright, head bent to stare at the prone figure at his feet. Eyes set above a black mask flicked up to focus on Clint through a heavy curtain of brown hair.

_Fuck._

“_Hawkeye?”_ Kate’s voice echoed from his field aid and also above and behind him. She’d gone high, probably into the scaffolding above the stage.

_Good._ At least she was off the ground and out of sight.

“Watch the perimeter, Hawkeye. Do_ not_ engage.”The Winter Soldier he recognized; the arm was hard to miss.

The other man was still flat on his back, and looked to be wearing Hawkeye cosplay. Clint could tell that he was still breathing. The Soldier leaned over him, and the man flexed his legs, levering up onto his feet like a gymnast, but with his left arm hanging limply at his side. He lunged at the Soldier, taking a punch to the ribs that Clint could hear even over the still fleeing remnants of the crowd, returning one of his own as the assassin reached for something.

They were too close, grappling and rolling, each clearly intent on killing the other.

Clint took a shot, anyway.

The arrow lodged in the Winter Soldier’s arm. Unfortunately, not the arm that was plunging a knife frenetically into his opponent’s side. The other man groaned, twisting away again and getting behind him, one-handed grip clenched on the Soldier’s mask. He yanked, forcing the Winter Soldier forward with a knee to his back, purple braced arm wrenching his head sideways by his mask.

_Braced?!_ Those were Clint’s _actual _bracers. _His_ tac-pants, and Steve's ass- “Steve?!”

“_I’ve got a shot.”_

Clint did, too. “Silver hand.” Clint loosed one arrow, then a second. They hit, tearing into the Winter Soldier’s calf and thigh. With her downward angle, Kate’s lodged deep in his right shoulder, just before Steve’s knee made impact. The blow looked to have dislocated the Soldier’s arm entirely, snapping the shaft on Kate’s arrow when it landed.

The Winter Soldier reared back, skull slamming into Steve’s chin, mask snapping off in his hand. He staggered, head hanging so his hair obscured his face, then lunged, snatching the mask away before backing toward the window like a cornered animal. Hawkeye loosed another arrow just as the Winter Soldier threw himself through the shattered window and back out into the snowy night.

“Steve!” Clint was already moving, reaching for him as Steve looked back over his shoulder. Jaw clenched, he offered a wavering smile and slid down onto his knees on the floor before Clint caught him.

Clint flicked his earpiece, opening the all comm line as he cradled Steve to his side. “Medical on my position. Cap is down. Repeat: Cap is down.” With the immediate threat past, he scanned the ballroom. Save a scattering of coats and overturned chairs, it was only the three of them – him, Steve, and Kate, jumping down from the catwalk above the stage – along with one of the standard event security guards, frozen in the stairwell door. “No other known injuries to report.”

“_On our way.”_ Natasha might have answered first, but she was on foot, and Clint knew how bad traffic was going to be, just like he knew Sam had probably left his wings wherever they’d parked the car.

“Stay sharp. He was heading south.” Maybe not Matt’s way, but the Man without Fear was just dumb enough to try. “Get a heads up to Double D. Observation only.”

“_On it.”_

“_I’m checking the roof, Hawkeye.”_ From the edge of his vision, he saw Kate run into the stairwell, purple shorts glittering in the flashing emergency lights.

“You see him, you run.”

Her voice was reedy in his ear._“Copy.”_

With the two of them effectively alone, Clint cut the broadcast and returned his conscious attention to Steve, trying to make sense of the battered, bloody slump of a man his boyfriend was at the moment. His left shoulder shimmered, tacky and crimson, and he wasn’t holding his arm up properly. The knife had caught him at least twice that Clint had seen in the right side, one stab a direct hit from the blade slipping beneath the ill-fitting tactical vest. There were powder burns on his left cheek and ear, and bruises already blooming along his jaw, and above his eye. “That was the dumbest fucking thing you have ever done-!”

“But-”

“He could have killed you!” Thank fuck Clint always kept emergency supplies in his work vest. He pulled out the wound covers, peeling one off its backing to place over Steve’s exposed shoulder. “You didn’t even have your _shield_.”

“We thought he was going after me –_ shit!_ – I-I mean, _Captain America_… It-it made sense.”

“Like hell it did!” He couldn’t get to the wounds at Steve’s side without taking off the vest, but Steve was also moving like some of his ribs were broken, and getting it off would make the shoulder worse. Why hadn’t Steve bothered to lift any of Clint’s knives when he knicked his pants? “What, being _born_ on a holiday wasn’t enough for you, you have to _die_ on one, too?!”

“It wasn’t like I was _chasing_ him, Clint. I was watching you, and he was just suddenly _there, _and he…_”_

“_What’s your status, Hawkeyes?”_

The words in his ear cut Steve off, but it was a relief to hear Tony’s voice, even if Clint felt awful for having to call in for this airlift, for not having stopped it sooner. For not recognizing Steve until it was too late. “Pissed, but both unharmed. Steve’s bad.”

“_Lift inbound to your location. South window in two.”_

“Got it.” Clint bit the inside of his jaw. Steve looked pale, and his breathing was getting heavier. Clint shifted, trying to support him better without jostling him too much. _“‘And he?’”_

“… he grabbed me by the throat, and…”

“By the-?!” Clint tugged down the zipper on the collar of his vest, coming face to face with the red hand print that wrapped around his boyfriend’s neck. It had been a left-handed grip – thumb pressed against a spot straight down from his ear, fingers wrapping across the front of his throat – the prints of the Winter Soldier’s middle and ring fingers straddling Steve’s adam’s apple, ending just at the edge of where the hickey Clint had given him this morning had all but faded away.

“Fuck, Steve, you… This… And he _shot_ you… You…!”_ You could have ended up dead! _Clint could feel the rasp building in his throat, the burning sting pushing up behind his eyes; it had been too close. _Too close._ Clint had nearly lost Steve twice tonight, and he had been right across the fucking street.

The crackle in his ear stopped that spiral, Kate’s voice bringing him back to the present, back to the _job_. _“Um, Hawkeye?”_

“Yeah, Hawkeye.”

“_Spider-Man just webbed in. He’s one roof over from the one that Cap fell off of, and he just keeps signing DEAD. Like, over and over.”_ Kate cleared her throat._ “I, uh… I think the party crasher left some gifts. I’m gonna head over there and try to calm him down. He’s getting a little panicked looking.”_

“Got your coat on?”

“_Yeah.”_

“Then get him off the roof, take him home, and go back to your place.” This was twice he’d found someone he loved bleeding and half-dead because of the Winter Soldier. Clint was really beginning to wish Kate_ had_ settled on the west coast instead of subletting in SoHo. Still, at least here he could watch her back; the best way to do that now was to get her as far from him or Steve as possible. “Backup’s on the way, and I’ll get your stuff.”

“_You’re sure? I mean, is Steve-”_

“We’re- We’re fine here. Help’s coming.” Clint looked out the un-shattered windows, staring through the still drifting snow. He could see Kate in her purple coat, arm wrapped around Spider-Man’s shoulder as she tugged him back toward the side of the roof._ Good job, Hawkeye._ That was part of the job, too. “No coffee stops; even if it’s not a school night. That kid’s twitchy enough already, and neither of us needs a call about caffeine jitters on top of the ones about nightmares. No patrols either, not until we catch this guy. I mean it.”

“_Gotcha. Straight home, no fun.” _He saw Kate and Peter disappear off the back side of the roof as she called back a final reply. _“I’ll check-in, Hawkeye.”_

“Clint?” came a thready whisper from the man in his arms.

_Steve!_ He looked down, “Hey – sorry – Kate and-”

“Yeah, I heard.” His boyfriend tipped his head to the left, showing the purple headset wire looped around his ear, breath hissing in through his teeth. “Are you okay?” Where the hell did Steve get off looking at Clint like that when he was the one wounded and bleeding on the floor?!

“Fuck no, I’m not, you-!” Clint’s hand was warm and wet where it rested against Steve’s side, a rivulet of blood sliding across the back in hot pulses timed with Steve’s breathing “You’re _still_ bleeding. A_ lot. Shit!_ Steve, we need to get you to someone, now.”

“I feel alright.”

“Of course, you do.” Clint would have laid into him right then, if a suit hadn’t zipped in through the broken window.

It landed a good ten feet away with a noticeable wobble, calmingly familiar, but just barely off. A little shorter than it ought to be, with a slightly different visor shape, trimmed in silver with a white and blue paint job.

“Tony?”

“Not quite.” The visor flipped up, revealing the straight-cropped bangs, freckled cheeks, and slightly mussed make-up of a familiar face. “Heard you guys needed an airlift?”

“Pepper?!”

“Shhh, it’s kind of a secret. Kind of. It was supposed to be for my un-birthday, but early gift for Valentine’s, right?” She walked over, a bit unsteadily, and knelt next to him, sliding her left arm behind Steve’s back as Steve looped the right around her neck. “Although, Steve, Tony’s not going to forgive you for rushing the surprise. Or for almost getting yourself killed.”

Steve made a valiant effort at rolling his eyes, grin wavering as Pepper slipped her other hand under his legs. “Worse than the elevator?”

“Way worse. Up we go.” Pepper stood, hoisting him with her, toddling, again, having brought him up a little too quickly. She flashed a sympathetic smile at Steve’s wince. “Okay. That’s different. I thought that would take more oomph.”

“You got him?” Clint knew he was crowding her, that he was hovering, but he didn’t care right then.

“Yeah, I’ve got him.”

“Have you-,” Steve grimaced, brows drawn down in pain. “-e-ever flown this thing before today, Pepper?”

“No; you’re my first rescue. It’s still in the beta-stages, but JARVIS is my copilot, and he says it’s cleared to get you back.” Pepper looked down at the man in her arms with a disappointed frown. “He’s not happy with you, either.”

“_I am most displeased, though less than surprised, by your reckless behaviour, Captain Rogers.”_ JARVIS’ synthesized voice piped out via an external speaker. _“You were meant to stay under my care in the tower. I do not like seeing any of you injured.”_

“I’ll meet you back at the tower.” Clint squeezed Steve’s nearly lax hand one last time. “Gotta go run crowd control.”

“Tony tried to get an aerial trace, but... Well, we came in at the same time, so he’s already down there. You’ll have a lift when you need it.” Her visor snapped back down, and Pepper Potts took to the air.

**•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**
> 
> **Clint Barton Bingo:** Rooftop (N2)
> 
> **•°☆°•…•°☆°•…•°☆°•**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [hawktion comic pages for Vexbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24980641) by [Cruria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cruria/pseuds/Cruria)


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